


A safe haven - or not?

by helena_s_renn, Helenas_bitch



Series: WTF? [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8339485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helena_s_renn/pseuds/helena_s_renn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helenas_bitch/pseuds/Helenas_bitch
Summary: The brothers relocate to Bobby's for lore and protection. Of course, things don't go the way they'd hoped for.





	

Sam felt more and more nervous the closer they came to Sioux Falls. Next to him in the driver's seat, Dean was silent, but his posture indicated that he shared Sam's anxiety. By the time Dean drove onto Bobby's lot and cut the Impala's engine, Sam wondered if it was too late to change their minds. Bobby hadn't turned them away when Sam had spoken to him earlier on the phone, but after the events at Harvelle's Sam wasn't sure if he – they – had the right to impose their presence on anyone, including their old friend and maybe surrogate father. Then again, where else could they go? 

Before Sam could open his mouth and confide his fears to Dean – who'd tell him to shut up and deal with it – Bobby emerged from the house's front door. He must have heard the Impala. Right. This was it, then.

"So you two idjits somehow managed to get Sam pregnant," Bobby grumped at them already when Sam was only half-way out of the car. "And no, I don't want to hear the details on how that happened. Even I have limits," he scoffed. "But you seem to have lost your sense of responsibility along with that. Where the hell have you been? You said you'd be here in a few hours, not in... I've been worried sick. And no, I'm not your," he swallowed and continued in a softer voice, "mother, but given that this pregnancy can't be natural, I'm assuming that there are a few characters out there who'd like to get their hands on Sam." He glared at them.

* * *

When he and Sam woke up, it was late afternoon. Immediately, Dean's stomach sank, knowing they'd be much later than expected. They could handle themselves, had been doing so since they were kids, and Bobby knew it. But now, with Sam being in an unnatural state, unseen forces would be more aware of them than ever, out there in the world. They had their anti-possession tattoos. However, the baby did not. They'd never had cause to find out whether the unborn could be possessed. If Rosemary's Baby had anything to say about it, they could.

After registering the time of day, the next thing Dean noticed was that he was sticky and disgusting. Big surprise. They'd taken the world's quickest shower, then Dean hustled Sam, hair still dripping from the ends, into the car and they hit the highway. 

The next hundred miles to Bobby's house had gone by silently, other than Baby's purr and the litany of, "Crap, crap, crap!" along with imagined snatches of pointed conversation sure to occur once they reached their destination that rolled through Dean's mind. 

Bobby started in on them before they were out of the car. Dean knew they deserved it and that their foster father was just worried so he put up his hands in a gesture of surrender and said nothing. It did raise his hackles a little, when Bobby accused them of getting Sam knocked up deliberately. Hell, no – they'd played safe. Given the end result, Dean spared a moment while digging his duffel and extra shotgun out of the back seat to consider that he might as well have gone bare that night. 

Bobby's house was warded up the wazoo in every language Bobby knew or could copy from a book or scroll, from ancient Sumerian to modern pagan symbols. "Well, let's get him inside, huh?" Dean spouted off, a little grumpily. Sam was partial to his five-mile morning runs and in general, being outside more than Dean cared for other than when he was hunting, and wasn't likely to appreciate being sequestered like a priest in training for the next few months, if things came to that. It was not typical for Bobby to mention their mom at all – he must have been having one of his maternal moments. Dean could hope for pancakes and bacon for dinner, if he was right. That might be worth the little spike of pain that any mention of Mary always caused. 

He and Sam followed Bobby up the creaking porch steps, through the heavy wooden front door. The interior was dark and dank, the air thick with dusty old books, dried herbs, wax, whiskey and fried food. Dean had read once that the sense of smell was deeply embedded in one's memories and he believed it. The house registered as home to him almost as much as Baby's interior. He didn't have much time to reminisce however, as cold water splashed him in the face. 

"What the hell?" he sputtered. 

"Well, I couldn't exactly offer him," Bobby gestured at Sam, who was wiping his face with the hem of his flannel, "a beer laced with holy water, now could I?" 

It took Dean a second to connect the dots, but no, you don't give alcohol to a pregnant... person. Sam wouldn't have accepted it, but that was beside the point. "Right. Fine. Silver knife next?" Dean asked tersely, drawing his out of his coat sleeve. They had a standing ritual about such things. Holy water shower, down the hatch, then proof their blood was red and didn't sizzle in the presence of silver. While he didn't like the idea of Sam bleeding, it was a small price to pay for safe harbor – or as safe as they ever got. 

* * *

Tired, Sam stood back and let Dean and Bobby... well, they didn't talk. As soon as Dean had gathered their stuff from the Impala's trunk, they both followed the older hunter inside his den. Before they were even inside, though, Bobby soaked them with holy water. Dean sputtered and cursed while Sam, who'd expected what he guessed counted as a welcome ritual these days, closed his eyes and let it happen. Next, Bobby splashed holy water in his own face, then nicked his arm as well as Sam's and Dean's. Sam registered with relief that Bobby didn't follow their dad's – in Sam's opinion stupid – habit of cutting one's palm and thus weakening one's fighting capabilities but went for the forearm instead. Bobby handed them a rag to wipe off the blood, then spoke.

"Right. You're here. Sam is pregnant. Anything else I should know? And I remind you that there are things I do not need to know."

Sam's eyes tried to meet Dean's but his brother wasn't looking. "We'll tell you everything, but it'll have to wait unless you want me to piss my pants."

Bobby gave them the mother of all eye-rolls but shrugged. "You know where. Meanwhile, Dean can start talking. I'll even throw in some, I'd say whiskey but you'll correct me and call it rot-gut if I remember right. Still, it'll help loosen your tongue. Come on, boy."

Sam smirked but hurried toward the restroom.

* * *

At Sam's comment and hurried rush to the half bathroom off the kitchen, Bobby's eyebrows raised again. He knew his boys made it a matter of pride to hold their water for hours, if necessary. "Um, just one of his.... symptoms," Dean told him. "That and puking, and his..." he trailed off. It really wasn't his right to tell Bobby that Sam's nipples were more sensitive than his dick these days, or that he'd been as horny as a 14-year-old. Besides, they'd already been warned that Bobby did _not_ want to be subjected to certain gory details. 

"Well, anyway, I'll take a slug of whatever rot-gut you got." There'd been an unusual lack of drinking lately. Maybe Dean could even get a buzz. Two measures of the dark amber liquid later, Dean sighed in satisfaction at the fiery burn down to his belly. He plunked down on the threadbare old couch across the room from the big desk. "One thing, Bobby, and you don't have to believe it. We didn't try to do this, even happenstance. I used a condom," he spit out defensively. "That time... when Sam was a chick. Shit." Even to his ears, it sounded crazy. "Yeah, I know. But he was. One night only." 

* * *

Bobby rolled his eyes. "So you two are role models for boy scouts," he growled. "It still doesn't mean I want to hear about how you got your brother knocked up. I thought I'd made my question clear but maybe the prospect of proud fatherhood has dulled your senses. So. Sam was a chick. Since we both agree – we do agree here? – that this isn't an everyday occurrence even with Sam, do you have any insight on how that's possible?"

* * *

Honestly! Bobby was this fucking squeamish? Dean hadn't even revealed anything he considered all that intimate. "Hey," Dean's tone made it clear he was trying very hard not to snarl, "You said, and I quote, 'Anything else I should know?' I'd say it's 'need to know' if it's something that shouldn't have happened, preventative measures taken or what have you." 

He shook his head, and downed the rest of his drink. "Yeah, Sam woke up in the middle of the night for a piss and guess what. He... was a she. And _himself_ again in the morning. It only happened that once. We have no idea what caused, or even by what means: spell, hex, actual magical alternate reality...? The sex demon in Nevada, which we ganked, by the way," he didn't say how, "seemed to be unrelated, and not powerful enough. Whatever messed with us had more juice than an incubus or siren or your average demon." He shrugged. "It was certainly... realistic." 

There hadn't been much time since Sam's pregnancy had been confirmed, for Dean to consider a motive. He looked over at Bobby, whose face was like thunder and an uncomplimentary shade of ashy green. Since Sam had asked for and obtained permission for them to stay there, he'd thought Bobby could handle it, but a pregnant male was a lot, not to mention the whole brothers, lovers thing. Dean felt a little bit sick, himself. He wasn't ashamed of his and Sam's relationship, and he didn't give a rat's ass what most people thought but this was Bobby. Like it or not, he wanted the man's acceptance. The mention of fatherhood didn't sit well with him either, mainly because of the possible result of a close blood relationship of the baby's parents. This, he wasn't about to bring up, because ultimately it was his fault. 

Before Bobby could speak again, Dean got up, steadied himself, and swiped the bottle off the desk. Refraining from downing the rest of the booze right there, he poured himself another glassful and retreated to the couch. "Sorry, man. What I wish I knew more than how is why. Maybe you should ask the questions, or else talk to Sam." 

* * *

It was as if the entire Atlantic ocean had somehow relocated to Sam's bladder and the relief he felt at letting go was almost as good as coming. Sam groaned loudly – and then bit his hand hoping that Bobby hadn't heard him. When he was done, he washed his hands and returned to the kitchen in time to hear Dean say that he didn't know what turned Sam into a girl but that he was more interested in finding out why than how it had happened. Sam couldn't answer the second question but at least he knew who – or what – was behind this whole mess.

"It was the trickster," he said. Both Dean and Bobby looked at him as if he'd suddenly dropped from the sky. "I, um, didn't really tell you before," Sam hemmed and hawed. He hadn't told Dean because his brother had refused to discuss the night 'it' had happened, but he wasn't going to admit that to Bobby.

"I saw him after, um, well, when you," he looked at Dean, "were in the bathroom washing up after–"

"Okay, I think we don't need to know why Dean needed to wash," Bobby interrupted. Sam couldn't help being impressed by the older man's eye-roll.

"I saw him and he said that he enjoyed watching," Sam resumed. "That's all."

* * *

"Dude," Dean directed at Bobby, "you keep that up, those eyeballs are gonna roll out of your melon onto the floor." 

He turned to face Sam, trying to keep his annoyance tamped down. "Why didn't you tell me? And not just because I was being a jackass." His brother's face had scrunched into the sort of bitchface that told Dean without a word, exactly what sort of comment he'd have received as a reply. 

Once again, he was on his feet, pacing. "That colossal douche! 'He enjoyed it.' Yeah, I'll bet. Watching, like we were animals in the zoo and... and meddling! Or what else would you call supernatural artificial insemination?" Oh shit, that creeper had seen him naked, and _in flagrante delicto_. What pissed Dean off even worse, he'd seen Sam like that. Sam as a woman, at his most vulnerable: he'd – she'd – even given Dean her virginity. Blood pounded in his ears in time to his accelerated heartbeat. It rankled, that a moment Dean still couldn't bring himself to discuss with his lover due to the sheer intimacy they'd shared as well as the impossible weirdness had been observed by a being that wasn't even human. Then the bastard had made his presence known to Sam. Only to Sam. Who kept it to himself. 

"Anything else you might have declined to mention?" Sure, Sam had said that was all, but Dean had his doubts.

* * *

"Nothing else. At least nothing that you didn't refuse to listen to when I tried to bring it up. More than once," Sam spat. How could Dean to that? It was a typical case of adding insult to injury, and since he knew his brother he shouldn't be surprised. Despite the experience of a lifetime he'd still been hoping that Dean would be supportive, but of course, regardless what happened, Sam was always the one to be blamed. It was ridiculous but it hurt. What was even more ridiculous was that Sam felt his eyes tearing up. 

"Fuck this," he announced. "I'll go get our stuff from the car. Unless you'd rather have us – _me_ – leave." He looked at Bobby.

* * *

" _Dean_ will get your stuff," Bobby cut in, and looked Sam in the eye. The boy had always been the more difficult of the two but he had an agile, ever-questioning brain – or maybe that was why – which Bobby counted on as he stared down the young man who over-topped him by almost a head. "later. You stay inside till we figure out some way to ward you. Go renew the salt lines or something while you're at it." He would handle the more complicated blood sigils himself. Sooner or later, Bobby had a feeling, Sam was going to need every drop of blood in his own body. 

Almost a physical thing, the tension that had just sprung up between the brothers was about to escalate or explode unless he nipped it in the bud. Whether it was regular brothers-fighting tension or sexual tension... What else they'd done, what they were to each other, played against the deeply-embedded natural law as well as legal system type law in a way most people would never be able to see past. Bobby was having a problem, too. Sure, they'd always been close, too close, co-dependently close. When Sam escaped to California, Bobby had thought he'd put an end to that. Not so. Still, Dean being the forever the ladies' man, and Sam so damned closed-mouthed, even if they hadn't been about as closely related as was possible they were far from each others' types. Perhaps when the trickster did whatever he'd done to Sam that caused the pregnancy, he'd altered the boys' thinking...? If it was some sort of lust spell, then there'd be a counter-spell. 

"Dean, don't you be jumping down Sam's throat for playing close to the vest; you're hardly the pinnacle of group hugs and warm fuzzies." Bobby wasn't either, but that was beside the point. He noticed Dean, who was skipping the glass and drinking directly from the bottle now, had gone through half of what he'd started with. The kid was going to kill his liver at this rate. Knowing any words on the subject would be hypocritical, Bobby huffed, shook his head, and returned his gaze to Sam, who hadn't moved yet. "There's plenty of rooms, if you don't wanna look at him. Skedaddle! Unless there's more you wanna say. And that's an invitation, not accusation." 

* * *

"But-" It was clear that Dean wasn't going to get a word in edgewise. He felt bad about what he'd said already. Sam would make him pay for that, and Bobby was about to rip him a new one from the sound of it. Well, he'd just take it. Whatever. "Fine, the trickster, Gabriel the Archangel... either way, the question now is how do we keep Sam alive and healthy, in that order. Find anything in your books about pregnant men?" 

* * *

Sam immediately snapped his mouth shut when Bobby mentioned warding. The house was safe, of course, but Sam wasn't. How could he have forgotten, especially after he and Dean already neglected salt-lines and other, even most basic, protection earlier!

"Yeah, sure," he acknowledged almost meekly. They were standing in the kitchen and Sam went to fetch a can of salt from a cupboard. Bobby had large bags of salt strategically distributed all over the house and Sam found it funny to find salt actually there where it belonged in – other, normal – households. Or, not so funny: the fact rammed home once again that they weren't normal and they'd never be normal. His physical state was the best proof for it and brought up the question again whether they had a right to doom a child to this kind of life. 

Finding answers to this and other questions was one of the reasons why he and Dean had come to this place. Sam said, "For the moment, I am alive and according to Doc Harris, healthy."

Bobby turned around and scrutinized him. "So you two have shared the news already. Who the hell is Doc Harris?"

Sam opened his mouth to elaborate, but at the last moment, he remembered that Bobby seemed to have, at least in some version of the past, had a thing for Ellen. "Um, Dean?" He looked at his brother, hoping that Dean would explain.

* * *

Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, but answered for him since his brother had indicated that he should. "Charlie Harris. That's Ellen Harvelle's new man friend. He's a doctor and he's set up shop – or clinic, I guess – at the Roadhouse. Mostly patch-up jobs for hunters who wander in all banged up. You hadn't heard?" 

Usually Bobby had all the latest hunter-related news, so it was odd he didn't know the name. Or, Dean reflected, maybe it was one of Bobby's little tests. Even if he was satisfied they were 'themselves', he might yet feel the need to verify every word that came out of their mouths. Considering what they were all dealing with, he couldn't blame him. Dean knew not to elaborate, however. He didn't know much about Charlie's history, and it would be better to keep his Sioux Falls associate very quiet. Only recently, he and Sam had let a monster live for the first time. Well, that was mostly thanks to the kid disappearing before they could decide, but they could have tried to take him out and asked questions later. Chances were they'd be dead, but instead of that, they'd tried to convince the little anti-Christ to be trained by angels. 

Bobby seemed to be turning Dean's reply over in his mind. "What?" Dean asked, as a prompt for their mentor to either continue his questions or tell them what he knew about the doctor. Following Bobby's gaze up to the ceiling where a large devil's trap was painted in red, he went on, "You want to talk to him or something? Compare notes? He did an ultrasound and ran some labs on Sam."

* * *

"Heard of him." That much, Bobby supposed he could reveal. It was a good idea, actually, having some sort of medic who knew more than basic first aid around. Sam and Dean had been taught more than most by their father, but it still only amounted to crude field surgery plus the two of them never stayed in one place for more than a few days anymore. "Nah, don't need to talk to him right now, I ain't no doctor, wouldn't know my albumin from my hCG. As long as the guy says Sam's in no immediate danger, we'll let it go at that." There, let them chew on that. He could make a call if it became necessary.

Over the years, Bobby had crossed paths with Ellen a few times. He'd been to the Roadhouse – the previous pre-fire version of it – with Rufus and on his own. In the hunting life, almost all of those who practiced the profession fell into one of three categories as far as their personal lives were concerned, one being those unattached and amenable to opportunities for... comfort. It boiled down to temporary distraction. You had your natural born sluts like Dean, blessed with what Bobby supposed ranked as close to a ten looks-wise if you liked your men pretty and bow-legged and player instincts to go with it. Frankly, that John had tolerated his eldest's proclivities had always been a bit of a mystery. Those like Bobby, open to occasionally hooking up with one of the few women in the life as long as they weren't totally fugly or came with strings attached, did the best they could. At his age, he wasn't exactly a prize. 

Those in committed relationships made up another faction. When it came to hunters, the other party in the relationship might be a hunter or not. Also, said party might be living or dead. John fell into this category. He'd never given up his obsession with finding his late wife's killer. When Bobby had met Ellen, her husband had still been around and she had fit in this group. She was a fine-looking woman, tough, probably passionate in bed, but he didn't go for infidelity. 

Then, there were those who eschewed all that. Hunters tended to be intensely private, stubborn, wary, set in their ways, and worried about other things like creatures and staying alive. For some, the concept of being vulnerable enough to have sex, even in a secure room with someone they cared about and weapons within reach, was too much. After her husband died, Ellen had gone over to this, or so Bobby had thought, with a liberal dose of 'uptight' in the mix, so much so that her picture might be printed in the dictionary next to the word and she'd probably tried (and maybe succeeded) to install a chastity belt on her then-pre-teen daughter. Forced celibacy didn't make people happy, and Jo certainly was not. The girl had plenty of issues to choose from, though. For years, Bobby had thought that Sam had pigeon-holed himself in with this lot, but he'd been proven wrong and not just by the current predicament. The kid had had a girlfriend in California at the very least. Bobby was aware there'd been a werewolf girl; he'd overheard the boys talking. The demon who had nearly killed Sam after the fact when he went through blood withdrawal was still on Bobby's to-do list if she ever went topside again, and he would know the second it happened. Point being, who knew what else, with Sam. 

But he was drifting again. Hours of mostly fruitless research were catching up to him. Damn, he needed sleep and that was unlikely with these two idjits in the house. He had things to do, too. Rubbing a hand over his face, Bobby said, "So... I think I found a spell that will leave Sam virtually invisible to anything demonic. I just need some time to tweak it to include angels in with what can't sense you. Bad news is, you still can't go more than a mile or two from the source." 

* * *

Grateful that the fight was deflected by Bobby's intervention, Sam relaxed when he listened to what the older hunter had to say. He didn't know why he'd felt so aggressive toward Dean only a minute ago but supposed it could be blamed on 'hormones'. How on earth was he going to get through all nine months of this?

That Bobby had already found a spell that he was confident would make Sam invisible to demons sounded promising. Sam trusted that Bobby would solve the issue and include angel-warding in no time. That it didn't work at long distances from the source wasn't surprising since it would have to be a very powerful spell to keep him safe from all kinds of supernatural beings. 

Sam shuddered involuntarily when he remembered what the safest place in Bobby's house was. The room had saved their lives on more than one occasion, but it was also a fact that Sam had spent several of his darkest hours in the panic room. Bobby's spell had better work if the alternative was being locked up down there for months.

Suddenly, even a mile or two sounded too confining. He knew it was his dread of being locked up speaking – and, of course, 'hormones'! – and what if or when they needed to consult with Harris? Bobby owned all kinds of useful artifacts, but not an ultrasound machine.

He looked at Dean. "Um, then maybe the source should be in the Impala," he suggested.

* * *

The car? Sam must have grown an attachment to that black gas-hog to match Dean's. Well, Bobby couldn't say he blamed him, or them. A similar attachment was the reason he stayed in this house. He could have moved or built a different house. Not all the memories it contained were good, some downright awful, but it was comfortable and familiar to him, home and work in one. Sam and Dean obviously felt the same way about that car. 

Would the spell work with such a change? Good question. They probably wouldn't know for sure till it was cast and then put to the test. "I planned to put the makings in the panic room, just in case. Sam, I get what you're saying, that you need a way out of here if the shit hits the fan. That's at least two more revisions to make on top of angel-proofing. We'll have to find a way to... anchor... the power to something that itself's not attached to the earth, and then to allow it to be mobile. Well boys, guess we'd better hit the books. I'll show you what I've got so far." 

* * *

Dean groaned but only inwardly at Bobby's 'invitation'. Sitting still, inside, with his nose buried in a book was never his strong suit. It occurred to him that the price of admission, so to speak, might include him and Sam becoming a couple of handy research assistants for their host, and not the sexy T.A. co-ed sort, which was a disconcerting enough thought. He still needed to get their stuff out of the car, so he could put it off a few minutes. 

There was just one thing he needed to ask Bobby before he did the errand. Normally, spells didn't hurt or alter a person's physical body unless they were designed to do so. Glancing over at Sam, Dean tried and failed to imagine him showing, either a little or a lot. "Our tattoos mean we can't be possessed but everything out there can still see us and track us. Whatever you've got cooking... is there any potential danger to Sam or the baby?" 

* * *

_Whatever you've got cooking..._ He may have thought that not much could surprise him, but even Bobby cringed when his mind immediately suggested that it wasn't he, Bobby, who had something cooking but that it was Sam who had a bun in the oven. Thankfully, he was versed enough in dealing with strange things to keep his mouth shut. "As I said, we'd better hit the books. Just 'cos I've got an idea about a spell doesn't mean I've ironed out the glitches yet."

* * *

Bobby's response was exactly what Sam had expected as well as hoped: More research was in order to ensure the spell would also work from a place that was _not_ the panic room. It couldn't be much better. They had a, for now, reasonably safe place to stay that would soon be even safer, and the way to get from reasonably safe to really safe was to be found by burying their noses in books. OK, there was of course still the issue of him being pregnant, but given the choice between being pregnant and being pregnant at Bobby's, the latter almost registered as good.

Sam smiled to himself, then had to suppress a smirk when he noticed Dean's reaction. No surprise there, his brother had never been fond of doing research. Maybe customizing the spell for the Impala could be made to involve some tinkering. Sam would speak with Bobby when Dean was out of earshot. Keeping Dean cooped up for months surrounded by books, not even mentioning Sam's state – hormones! – wouldn't sit well with either of them. 

First things first, though. They needed to get their gear inside and move to their bedroom... Their bedroom. It hadn't occurred to Sam before that even this simple act of sharing a room now held a second, deeper meaning. Well, they'd have to deal with it. If Bobby was clever he'd keep his mouth shut on anything relating to Sam and Dean having sex. Otherwise, Dean would probably go ballistic even earlier. Sooner or later, that would happen anyway. Maybe once they'd got the spell right, Bobby would take Dean hunting. 

But first... "Should I go fetch our stuff from the car, then?"

* * *

"...Stay in the house!" Bobby and Dean both responded, not quite in stereo. Dean might have preceded that with a "No" and Bobby with "Sam", but it was impossible to know who said what. 

Dean wasn't sure when he'd thrown himself on the couch again. Someone had to bring their things in the house, sooner rather than later if they didn't want Sam using that as an excuse to escape. Now that they were here, they were going to need to stay put. Just thinking about several months under one roof gave Dean cabin fever, where, he was sure, other people – Sam included – would probably see it as an incredible relief. In a sense, he did too: Sam could gestate in relative peace. Bouncing to his feet again, Dean added, "I'll go get everything," and set his glass and bottle down on the dark, scratched patina of Bobby's desk. 

Outside, a breeze ruffled the gelled spikes of his hair. Dean made sure the door was shut tight and jogged down the porch steps; the second from the bottom squeaked as always. Maybe he could do something about it while they were here. A couple of pocket gophers ran for it and dived into their holes between rows of rusting junkers. As he approached Baby, Dean reached into his front pocket for the keys. They caught on loose threads on the way out, and he had to tuck the pocket back in after disentangling the bullet chain. His jeans had seen better days, like most of their clothes. Other than when they had to look legit for work, clothes had never concerned Dean much. Most of their casual clothes tended to end their lives covered in disgusting, hunt-related gunk. Now, he realized, within weeks or for sure months, Sam would need bigger sizes. There was no such thing as maternity clothes for men, and Sam wouldn't wear them anyway. They'd have to find some XXXL sizes eventually, at least some tee-shirts, flannels, maybe sweat pants. There were always thrift shops, since it would be temporary. If he remembered correctly, Sioux Falls had a decent array of secondhand stores. 

For now, what they had on hand was clean, thanks to Ellen's laundry room. Dean pulled out their duffels, computer gear, cooler, and the backpack Sam kept their own small collection of lore books in. He decided the weapons they had on them and had already brought in the house were enough for the time being. Bobby had an armory in the basement. 

Carrying the whole lot in one trip proved to be a challenge. He had to drop his long-time friend the green beer cooler to get the door open. "Honey, I'm ho-ome," sing-songed Dean as he staggered back inside. And then, "OK, seriously! Little help here?!" 

* * *

Sam had already forgotten he was supposed to stay inside. Bobby refrained from rolling his strained eyes yet again. He'd read that some pregnant... people... experienced forgetfulness. Really, he had no idea what to say to Sam alone. Since the possession incident a few years previous, he'd had his reservations about the young man, but he would do his best to make sure the kid – kids – stayed as safe a possible. "Dean says he doesn't care how or why it happened, but what about you?" 

Sam knew enough not go get into the slap and tickle part. While he waited for an answer, Bobby perused the floor-to-ceiling shelves against the wall by his desk, pulling out a few books. Sometimes, finding answers was more dumb luck than anything else.

* * *

When both Bobby and Dean told him to stay in the house, Sam's first instinct was to stick out his tongue at them, but he curbed it. He knew he was behaving weirdly and he really didn't need to add to that. Complaining about it, on the other hand, was second nature to him and he'd better live up to his standards unless he wanted his keepers to worry even more.

"Come on, not even to the Impala? This whole place is warded up to the wazoo and last I heard it wasn't just the house," Sam whined.

The stony faces of his brother and sometimes-surrogate-father told him he wasn't making a point.

"Fine," Sam sighed. Dean left to fetch their clothes and whatever else he thought they'd need, leaving Sam standing in Bobby's kitchen. He'd rarely felt so out of place before and he could only hope that they found a solution to anchor his protection so that he could venture outside again. Just when he was about to head for Bobby's 'library', the older hunter addressed him and asked how he felt about 'it.'

After all Bobby had said earlier, Sam was a little surprised, but Bobby clearly didn't want to hear about the, well, physical details that had led to the pregnancy. He thought for a moment before replying.

"It was... unreal," he finally said. "I woke up as a woman and then... Come on, what would you have thought? Middle of the night, suddenly your junk is gone and you've got... tits, could only be a weird dream. So the dream me probably decided to have some fun, and why wouldn't, er, she? And that should have been it. Only it wasn't."

He paused. "Do I care how or why it happened? Of course I do. Whatever or whoever is behind this must have some plans for the, um, baby, and I'm pretty sure I won't like them. So yeah, I care. A lot. I've no idea how this is possible or how we can pull it off, but I'm in this situation now and denial won't solve it."

Smiling grimly, Sam added, "Although whoever got me into this mess made a capital mistake by overlooking that pregnancy would give me protective instincts toward the child."

He didn't know what else to say. That he was deeply in love with his brother who returned his feelings was still so new for Sam that he wasn't sure if it was real. Real or not, it certainly wasn't something he could spring on Bobby, least of all without speaking to Dean first...

...Dean, who in that moment made Sam roll his eyes. "'Honey?' Seriously?" He looked at Bobby who shrugged. "Am I allowed to approach the doorstep then?" He didn't wait for a reply but proceeded to the hall. "Or wasn't this about me leaving the house but carrying stuff? I'm pregnant, after all, _honey."_

* * *

Once again, Bobby got an earful of way more information than he ever wanted. It did serve a purpose, though: Whatever had caused this mess had managed to temporarily turn Sam's body female. So Sam had needed to be a woman to _get_ pregnant, but apparently not to _stay_ pregnant. So what about when it came time for the baby to be born – would Sam transform again? Somehow, Bobby doubted they'd be so lucky, which meant there would need to be real medical intervention. The closest hospital was about a 15-minute drive away, less if Dean was driving. Luckily Bobby didn't live far from town but he doubted even those faceless quacks down at Sioux Falls General would know what to do with a pregnant man. It made him feel just a little bit better to hear Sam confess his protective "mother" instincts. The boys could always be trusted to do everything the hardest way possible (perish the thought, he shuddered), but Sam wouldn't endanger the baby out of rebellion. 

Before they could discuss it further, Dean banged on the door and made his typical scene, bellowing for Sam to help him out. His brother's face spoke of his annoyance with the endearment Dean's cliched greeting, but he prowled off in the direction of the door.

* * *

"What...?!" Dean drawled at the bitchface that appeared behind door number one. "You watched as many bad reruns as I did before you discovered books, geek-boy." He couldn't help but smile at Sam's resistance to pet names. "Or should I make that 'bitch'?" If he didn't watch it, Sam would kick his ass – well, he could try, knocked up or not. A pair of massive shoulders blocked the doorway. "Move it, Gigantor." Somehow, Dean managed to shuffle past his disgruntled brother into the kitchen, where he set what weapons he'd carried on the table, along with their computer gear. "I'll just take these upstairs," he referred to the bags with their clothes. 

The house was so familiar, Dean made it through the office and up the stairs on autopilot, not even thinking about which room. Of course it would be 'their' room at the opposite side of the house from Bobby's. The old farmhouse was nothing fancy but it had been built sturdy with the high ceilings and dark wooden trim. In the style of the day, most of the rooms upstairs were small, but Bobby had knocked out a few walls, leaving fewer but roomier bedrooms. Theirs, coincidentally, was big enough for two double beds, almost like a motel room. They would have to remedy that soon, Dean decided. If Bobby had a meltdown about them dragging in a king-sized bed, well, they'd just say it was for Sam's comfort since his feet hung off the end of the double anyway, and they couldn't fit two queens in there. Dean snorted over the most-often-used double entendre of motel clerks everywhere. Might be a while before they had to deal with that again. 

Then he found himself sitting on one of the beds, zoning out. The Roadhouse hadn't been relaxing to say the least, with the tense atmosphere. Dean, while he didn't think about it, hadn't had any time to decompress other than with sex, in forever. Man, he needed to find something to do before he conked out in the middle of the day. Clean the guns, that should do it. He headed back downstairs. 

* * *

'Geek-boy' 

'Bitch'

'Gigantor'

Sam sighed. It was going to be a long... just how many months until he was supposed to give birth? Of course, as a man, he was not 'supposed to' give birth at all. So maybe he should be glad that there was a lot of time left until however this pregnancy was 'supposed to' end would happen. He'd had his share of field surgery-butchery and wasn't exactly enthusiastic about the prospect of a Caesarian, but unless the trickster planned to turn him into a woman again, that was the most likely outcome. Sam thought he'd probably prefer the surgery. Also, the trickster changing him into a woman again required the trickster finding him first, so he'd better get to work on Bobby's draft plan to prevent that from happening.

Neither Dean nor Bobby had replied to his question about carrying stuff, so Sam decided to leave the work to Dean for a change. If they insisted on treating him as if he were extremely delicate due to the pregnancy, he might as well make the best of it. "I guess I'll head for the library, then," he announced. "Bobby, could you show me what you have so far?"

* * *

Watching the boys react to each other, Bobby had to wonder if they weren't getting along at the moment. Dean kept up the over-jovial, half-insulting by-play; Sam's face, always expressive no matter how he tried to hide his emotions, radiated his confusion. There'd been plenty of these moments throughout the years, though none where the two young men had been... together. Not as far as Bobby knew anyway and he still didn't want to think about it no matter how much they were shoving it in his face just by, well, being. He welcomed the distraction when Sam asked to be shown his research. 

The two of them sat behind Bobby's desk and he opened several tomes to marked pages. His notes on a yellow legal pad were nearly another volume in itself, but he flipped the pages to the last with writing on it. "What I think will work is this protection spell as a base," he moved one old leather-bound book in Sam's direction. "But it'll need to be a helluva lot stronger than salt and sage. To that end..." Three more books, which he tapped in turn. "We know how to guard against demons. That's going to need to include other creatures, humans, and most importantly, angels. Which, unfortunately, there's very little useful information about. I found a whole mess of books on them locked in the archives of... well, never mind where. Here's a few; the rest, I put in the panic room. Haven't had a chance to read more than a few yet. Point is, those authors couldn't agree about their powers, what they really are, if or how long or how many have been skulking around on Earth... nothing – it's contradiction after contradiction. Somehow, we gotta figure out what's true." 

It was a tall order, and they both knew it. Bobby could see it in Sam's set face and shoulders that he'd do whatever he had to. With a sigh and shrug, Bobby opened the bottom desk drawer and took out another bottle, his last in this room. He offered it to Sam, then stopped short when the combination of shock and the beginnings of outrage were directed back at him; he realized the gesture was highly out of line. "Oh, shit. Sorry Sam, wasn't thinking. Old habits." 

* * *

Seating himself at the chrome and Formica kitchen table, Dean spread out their handguns on a dish towel he'd grabbed from the handle of the oven and went to work. His 1911 Colt, Sam's Taurus, the Smith and Wesson, the Beretta... it was a task he'd been doing since he'd had strong enough hands to reassemble the parts. Bits and pieces of whatever Bobby and Sam were talking about filtered in from the next room, but he didn't try to follow. Dean had more faith in the combined brain-power of the two other men than his own more... physical abilities. Did it matter, though? Say they managed to keep Sam under the radar for the next half a year. Then what? The baby ripped Sam's body apart and then, assuming Sam survived, they were responsible for its helpless, needy little life. Sometimes they were too broke to feed themselves, and slept in the Impala. Earning money in the lean times happened in bars, over games of poker and pool. They had nothing to offer, as far as being parents. Dean had lived that life as a kid. He couldn't do it to his own. But he couldn't _not_ hunt and he couldn't be without Sam. As awful as it made him feel to even think it, maybe Jo had been right. 

But it was too late now, and Sam had been furious at the mention of that option. Before then, Dean hadn't considered it, and he had decided long ago that it was up to the woman to choose. Woman, in every other case before Sam. No matter how this turned out, they were fucked. Dammit, why did this have to happen? His karma was really biting him in the ass. For all his years of hook-ups, Dean had been the love-'em-and-leave'-em one-night stand. He didn't know anything else, other than what he had with Sam. If he'd accidentally left any little Dean's behind before, he'd been long gone. A kid with Winchester blood from both parents meant it would be born with a target on its back. How could it ever be safe? 

* * *

Bobby led Sam to his study and showed him his research results so far. Half-listening to Bobby's explanations and half-reading the notes scribbled in Bobby's almost illegible handwriting, Sam was impressed by the amount of information the other hunter had dug up during... the much longer time than he and Dean had intended to need. He blushed, remembering how the time had been spent. To cover his embarrassment, he focused on the basic protection spell Bobby pointed at and frowned.

"Root of the hrghywu... plant? What the... fudge," Sam was suddenly struck by the thought that he'd better get used to not swearing with a child around, "is a h-hrgh-whatever plant? And, more importantly, how do we even begin to find such ingredients? I can't leave the house – make that you and Dean won't let me venture outside – until that spell is completed, so how on earth are we going to find it?"

The expression on Bobby's face suggested that he had no clue either. However, before Bobby could voice that he had no – _fucking_ – clue, Sam had a bottle of rot-gut offered to him. It was tempting: if anyone ever needed a drink, it was him, but the very reason why he'd want that drink was also the reason why he couldn't have it.

"It's okay," he told Bobby, who realized it at the same time. "I'll survive, and you'll be relieved to hear that I don't feel other strange cravings either." The latter was only partially true if he counted sex as a craving; that one he definitely had, but he wasn't going to point that out to Bobby. No, let him think – and that part was not a lie – that he was referring to strange food choices.

"So," he continued, "you said you have more books in the panic room. Are they, like, so dangerous that they need to be kept there?" Sam wasn't too keen on spending time down there.

* * *

Seemed that Sam couldn't make heads or tails of the pronunciation either. Bobby hadn't found even one online reference to it. "What the 'fudge' is mild compared to this thing. I'd never heard of it before. I doubt we'll have any luck getting it at the local Wiccan-pagan shop. Other herbs and plants I considered are angelica, mullein, and juniper. We might be able to combine ingredients, like compounding medications." Bobby could see that Sam followed his logic. "The books downstairs are what I call the essentials: some of the most basic but necessary lore, and the rarest of the rare. There are some, shall we say, dark texts down there." 

"I don't need to tell you, because you already know: black magic is powerful, fast, and effective. Kind of like a strong laxative," he had to chuckle before turning serious again. "But it always takes a toll on the person using it. So I want to avoid that side of things if we can." 

* * *

It was taking a long time to clean and reassemble the guns. Every time Dean looked up, the sky outside the kitchen window beside him, visible through faded flowered curtains, had changed more than he anticipated. The clock jumped ahead since he'd last checked the time and he'd made no progress. So what... had he been sitting there staring vacantly the rest of the time? Jeez, he wasn't that drunk, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd gone for any other sort of chemical buzz. 

'Hold it together, dude!' he chided himself. 

* * *

"Right now, I can't imagine a situation where we'd be desperate enough to resort to black magic," Sam said, "but that doesn't mean things won't change to a point where we may not have another choice. So let's leave the books downstairs until we know that this," he pointed at the tomes on the table and shelves surrounding them, "can't help us."

He bent down toward Bobby's text again but the musty smell of old books suddenly assaulted his nostrils. "Speaking of laxatives, I need something that does the, uh, opposite." He blushed. "My stomach doesn't agree with a lot of things recently and Ellen's man gave me some pills for that. They're with my stuff, so let's go find Dean and ask him where he put our bags. Also, we should tell him what you've found so far."

Sam grinned. "Wanna bet that he can't pronounce that," he nodded toward the legal pad, "either?"

* * *

"He'll take one look at it and substitute, 'a what now?'" Bobby retorted. Thanks to a repeatedly botched exorcism a couple of years back, Dean would play that card if he wasn't thinking fast enough to turn a more sarcastic reply, rather than chance a mispronunciation or incorrect term. Whatever demon that had been, it had done a number on him. While they were here, Bobby made a mental bookmark for himself, he would make sure the boy was up to speed on the various incantations. 

Once again, Sam surprised Bobby by agreeing to avoid the dark side for the time being. They'd been in the makeshift office for less than hour, so Sam wanting to take a break already was another change. If he was set on puzzling out something, Bobby had seen the kid sit and read for almost a full day straight. Well, other than the initial shock and the enormous wealth of TMI, he was finally being confronted with a symptom. Nausea, Bobby divined by Sam's intonation and the quirk of his mouth. "Morning sickness?" he asked, not sure if he should pry even that much. He glanced uncomfortably out the nearest window, the plate-glass picture window painted in angel-proofing sigils and saw it was twilight already. "Or, uh, I guess not just morning, huh?" 

Happy that Sam was willing to take something for it and not risk his rare volumes with a sudden upheaval, Bobby moved to the side so Sam could get out from behind the desk. He noticed the younger man massaging his lower back, the ache Bobby was all too familiar with after too long hunched over his books. He did the same, something like a sympathetic response. His excuse was his age. Since Sam wasn't as prone to pulling muscles and ligaments as Dean, it had to be due to the slight changes in his stance and posture. About that, Bobby said nothing – tending to those sorts of pains would – exclusively – be Dean's job. Preferably, behind closed doors. 

* * *

"Nope, not only morning," Sam confirmed, shuddering at the memory. "More like continuous, going on for days until Ellen's guy stopped it. I intend to keep it stopped." He straightened from where he'd leaned over Bobby's desk and winced when his back protested. Probably a pulled muscle, he told himself. Maybe it was wishful thinking: he did tend to have backaches after being cooped up in the Impala for longer drives – what with Dean being shorter and adjusting the seat to his own preferences, meaning that someone Sam's size was at a constant disadvantage since Dean did most of the driving.

Trying to ignore the pain, Sam walked back to the kitchen where he found Dean cleaning their weapons.

"Hey there," he greeted his brother, "and thanks for taking care of this. I could have helped you with that," he offered belatedly. "Just like I'd have helped with our stuff. Um, where did you put my bag? I need something for my stomach – and I'm not talking booze," Sam quickly added. 

High percentage alcohol was often Dean's first solution for almost any problem, but Sam had already been through that with Bobby today.

* * *

From the heavy treads on the wooden staircase earlier, Bobby was sure Dean had hauled most of his and Sam's travel kits up there to the room they'd shared since they were boys. Sam though, besides needing a stretch also needed to talk to his brother, or that's how Bobby interpreted it. He couldn't dispute not wanting to be sick again. Hunting offered more than enough opportunities for that, between the disgusting biological and paranormal substances they found themselves covered in at times and the heavy drinking that seemed to accompany the profession. 

Legal pad in hand, Bobby followed Sam into the kitchen. Dean was sitting at the kitchen table with gun parts lined up before him along with several other weapons. He was slumped, legs splayed wide and a blank expression dumbing down his typical, sometimes self-parodying face. 

* * *

"What...?" Sam's voice filtered through Dean's unsettling reverie, although the meaning of the words was lost. All Dean heard was, 'drink'. When he looked up, his brother was looming over him, expectant – ha – look on his face. Dean looked him up and down. 

"You know better than to drink, unless you mean water," he mumbled, picking up the Smith and Wesson's trigger guard for what had to be the fifth time. 

* * *

Sam had already finished speaking when Dean finally deemed to look up from his task. While Sam had stood there talking to him, his brother had fiddled with the trigger guard several times and Sam was getting the distinct impression that he was avoiding him. When Dean finally spoke, it became clear that he hadn't even listened to what Sam had said.

"I didn't even mention the word 'drink'," Sam bristled. "I said I need something for my stomach and it had better _not_ be booze." His hackles were rising. "That would be the alcoholic in you speaking," he added acidly, "connecting everything to drinking. Now, where did you put our bags? I suggest you tell me _now._ That is, unless you want to have me puke all over the table." 

He knew he sounded like a whiny three-year-old, but he was beginning to feel really sick. Trying to take the sting out of his previous words, Sam amended, "Which would be a shame since you're about to finish cleaning our guns. Thank you for that again, by the way."

* * *

The threat of sick on his arsenal was enough to make Dean look up, finally, although he set the metal piece in his hand down on the rolled-out cloth he used to prevent scratches yet again. "I prefer 'functional alcoholic'. Had enough puke to last me a lifetime between Nevada and the Roadhouse, thanks. Your stuff's upstairs in our room." He twisted his lips in what he knew must be a wan smile and conceded, "I know that wasn't your fault. The puking." 

If Bobby hadn't been there hovering in the background, Dean knew he would have probably gone on to add all the other symptoms that weren't Sam's fault, weren't anyone's fault. Well, anyone but, as Sam had just recently revealed, the trickster's. Then he had a thought that made him more than a little nauseous, himself. Somehow managing to use the few brain cells not focused on the massive wet dream come to life that was his brother transformed into a naked female, Dean had worn a condom when they'd had sex... and yet his brother was pregnant. Sure, everyone – including Dean – knew rubbers were not 100 percent effective. He always carried the ones with spermicide, which increased their efficacy, so he was reasonably sure they'd been safe. If that douche of a cowardly archangel could make a baby happen with their genetic material independent of their bodies, who was to say that he hadn't used someone else's DNA? Snowball's chance in hell that the two of them had been the only ones getting laid in that motel on the night in question. What if it wasn't his kid? Was that even better, or worse? 

Reeling from the implications, Dean looked up at Sam, mortified of how he'd let Doc Charlie and Ellen and Jo and now Bobby know he was responsible because he'd felt the slightest inkling of pride under the conundrum of it all: the old-as-time accomplishment of having planted his seed, something he'd never thought he'd want. There'd be no way to tell if it was his till it was born and they tested it. Correction, him or her. He had between now and then to come up with a plausible reason to require a paternity test without Sam knifing him in his sleep. 

Sam shifted, probably about to head upstairs. The light from the overhead fixture behind him caught Sam's hair, turning it to a halo of molten copper. Dean gritted his teeth so hard he heard the molars on the right side creak. He was just going to have to keep his mouth shut about his new worry. Not his strongest suit.

* * *

As Sam had expected, the prospect of him puking all over the guns got a reaction from Dean. His brother even went as far as admitting that it wasn't Sam's fault – more precisely, that the _puking_ wasn't Sam's fault. Sam frowned. What was that supposed to mean? Was Dean blaming him for being pregnant? As in, somehow becoming pregnant was always the woman's fault? As in, Dean had worn a condom, so it could only be something that had gone wrong on Sam's side?

A wave of nausea told Sam that he'd better stop thinking and go get a pill _now_ or he'd make good on his threat, however involuntary. He swallowed a few times until his rising gag reflex became bearable again. 

"By upstairs you mean our room?" he asked. Dean gave him a curt nod in reply and Sam headed toward the stairs. He'd get his pill and try to figure out a way to make Dean talk. Something was going on in his brother's head and the tension in Dean's jaw was as good as a promise that whatever it was, Sam wasn't going to like it. But first things first.

* * *

Bobby had followed Sam to the kitchen but stayed a little behind. There was something going on between the brothers that he couldn't quite figure out. Oh, there were things he definitely did not want to figure out, like the anatomical details that had led to this impossible pregnancy, but the interaction between the two Winchesters was... off. 

Although he wasn't exactly an expert in human relationships, it wasn't hard to see that the tension between Sam and Dean was building up at an alarming rate. Couldn't these idjits see that they were playing into evil forces' hands? That their fighting made them vulnerable and susceptible to the dark side? That they needed to focus on finding a means of protecting themselves and their... spawn... What if...?

Bobby wanted to believe that what was growing in Sam's body was a human baby, but how could they be sure it wasn't a monster? Not everything evil reacted to Holy Water. They needed to perform more tests, but he knew that if he suggested that, his head would soon end up in a separate room from the rest of his body.

The thought of a monster growing inside Sam was alarming on more than one level. If it was indeed evil, it could counteract any protective spell they'd create. Sam had said that it had been the trickster messing with them, but had it really been the trickster? Or could it have been a demon in disguise? Bobby had to ask the boys if they'd made sure to salt the door and windows that night. But even if they had, how sure could they be that the trickster, whatever his agenda may be, wasn't an evil force himself?

Questions and more questions, and now Bobby had the additional problem of not being able to bring this up without risking a painful demise at Dean's hands. 

* * *

The signs, now more familiar to Dean than he ever would have wanted with the adult form of his brother, that Sam was about to toss his cookies flashed before his eyes when Dean briefly looked up: the paleness, the beads of sweat gathering at Sam's temples, the slight forward thrust of his jaw and parting of his lips in attempt to contain the saliva pooling in his mouth... unfortunately, that look, other than the greenish tinge, was a lot like what he was presented with seconds before Sam sucked his dick into those pink depths, always so good... 

Fuck. He had just been considering life as a non-father after not even being used to the idea in the first place and now look where his thoughts had wandered. Thanks to Bobby's silent presence, he couldn't stand up at the moment without embarrassing himself, and he was mighty thirsty for something besides booze all of a sudden. Squirming on the hard wooden chair, Dean returned his attention to the guns with a vengeance. It took him less than five minutes to finish the task he'd been fiddling with for ten times longer. 

After a while, it came to his attention that Bobby was now sitting across from him, silent but with a puzzled expression. "What?" Dean directed at him while disassembling one of the spare revolvers they didn't use much. If he remembered correctly, it had been John's at one time. He motioned to the legal pad with chicken-scratch notes that the other man held. "You're thinking too loud. You and Sam get anywhere with your spell?" 

Maybe... got some more ideas but there are a lot of... factors." Bobby reached up and pushed the trucker cap up a little, scratching at the thinning hair beneath. Even that had been too much of a leading statement. Dean was no dummy, especially when it came to family business. He would have to proceed carefully. 

Sure enough, Dean jumped on that. "'Factors?' What does that mean?" Immediately he thought the worst. "Like how pregnant Sam is and... and how dead he's likely to be within the next six months?" 

* * *

As Sam hurried up the stairs to the room that had been theirs for as long as he could remember he told himself not to think about anything before he hadn't gotten his nausea under control. So maybe the rampant hormones raging through his body made him moody and feeling sick certainly didn't make it any better, but he needed to remind himself that he wasn't the only one far out of his comfort zone. Dean may not suffer from the physical effects like Sam did, but this latest 'gift' fate had dropped in their laps – and quite literally so in Sam's case – was hard on his brother, too. He should really give Dean a little space... provided that he could remind himself of this plan before his temper blew up the next time.

He found the medication Charlie had given him in his bag on the bed further away from the door, which was by definition Sam's. Even in Bobby's house, which was probably the safest place on the planet for the Winchesters, this rule was iron-clad. After dry-swallowing a pill, Sam decided he might as well rest a little. It would give his stomach time to settle and his overactive mind could do with some peace, too. Laying down on his bed, he closed his eyes. Only for a minute...

* * *

"Factors as in unknown factors, for example," Bobby replied. He wasn't going to suggest that Sam may be pregnant with an unnameable evil. It was likely that Dean had similar suspicions but Bobby wouldn't be the one to bring it up. Discussing this potential issue had to be postponed to a later date: after they created a spell that would not only protect Sam from the outside but also from the inside. If the baby was indeed evil, they'd better not raise its suspicion, and finding the best warding was their legitimate goal in any event. So Bobby would stick with this part of the truth for now.

"Factors like, who or what could be after the child and how do we protect it from these beings, influences, whatever. And how can we protect it from things we don't know about." He sighed and got up to fetch a bottle from one of the kitchen cupboards. "I've started looking into things as soon as I got your call. Sex demons impregnating females are not so uncommon and there are a bunch of spells to deal with that, both to keep the child safe or terminate the pregnancy – which is not what I am suggesting," Bobby hurried to explain.

"So we could work with one of these spells to start with. But in order to ward Sam against the more serious powers I'd have to dig into some pretty dark matters myself. Now, how do we keep your brother from joining my research of those things? Exposing him and the baby," Bobby swallowed as he still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that, even in the best case, Sam, a man, was with child, "to some of the volumes I've got downstairs could be very dangerous in his state. Ideas and suggestions are welcome."

He took a proper gulp and offered the bottle to Dean.

* * *

"Huh..." Dean waved off the latest bottle of Bobby's so-called rot-gut while he mulled over that information. At the same time, he listened for what was or was not going on upstairs. Sam must have reached his medication in time, because after the footsteps up the stairs and across the floorboards, there were no sounds of running, vomiting or flushing. Good, Sam's body had had enough strain.

"You're right, we don't want him to go dark-side again, especially not now. If you need help with the scary shit, you come to me, got it?" Dean's skills with translation and research had been surpassed by his younger brother by the time Sam was in junior high, but he wasn't an idiot; he was also better at improvisation as far as he was concerned. "I don't have to mention the last time Sam spent... quality time in the panic room. Now as far as what forces..." There plenty at work. Determining this part of it could make all the difference. Lucifer and his minions? Demons acting independently? A sex demon, as Bobby suggested? "Well, we ganked the thing in Elko, and we're reasonably sure that it was some sort of incubus-succubus cross held captive by local witches. We should have taken out the coven, too, but that's when Sam got sick. I for one vote for the god squad, those feathery dicks. Sam already thinks it was the trickster, A.K.A. AWOL archangel... why don't we start there? I don't mean right this minute, not till you get Sam under protection, but maybe we could summon the little prick and grill him." 

Teeth bared in a cross between a snarl and maniacal grin, Dean figured he had to look monstrous himself wearing such an expression at the moment and had better take it down a notch. "Or what's your theory, if you have one?"

* * *

"Feathery dicks, huh?" Bobby rubbed his beard. "I guess one could dub them that. If I remember right, the only one that hasn't screwed you over – and I put the emphasis on _yet_ – is that Castiel guy. Since angels and, let's call them unnatural, pregnancies have been mentioned together in the past, I thought he might be a good starting point for support and, well, heavenly protection. So I tried to locate him, even tried to summon him. Didn't work. No response at all. Guy's gone unless I messed up the spell, but I'm pretty sure I didn't. Of course, we could try it on the other dick to make sure it really wasn't the spell after all."

He took another gulp from the bottle. "What do you think?"

* * *

While Sam and Dean had been literally fucking away their afternoon, Bobby had been much more pro-active, Dean was now hearing. And not just sticking his nose in books, but attempting a summoning. "That could have gone horribly, badly wrong, Bobby." Though he had no right at all, Dean could hear the admonishment in his voice. "I mean... after what happened to Pamela, really? That took some balls. Hate to say it, but I'm almost glad Cas is incommunicado." Finished with all the cleaning and polishing he could stand for the minute, Dean decided, "Yeah, let's try option number two: Gabriel. While Sam's up there," he raised his eyes to the ceiling, then focused on Bobby. "If the angels have an agenda for... well, he'll know about it. You have whatever it is you'll need for another summoning and then banishment?" 

Making a move like that without even telling Sam what they were up to didn't seem right. Downright underhanded, if Dean was honest. But since they didn't have the right... protection yet, he didn't want a supernatural being anywhere near his brother. "We can keep him caged with holy oil, once he's here," Dean revealed. Bobby might know about that already, but if not, Dean wasn't about to mess around. "I have some out in the trunk. I'll go get it." 

* * *

"I got the ingredients and the spell," Bobby replied to Dean's retreating back. And that, he reckoned, was Dean in a nutshell: taking care of Sam in his own messed up way, behind his back, spur-of-the-moment, taking on the most dangerous work. He wasn't looking forward to meeting this trickster-angel person, but since Dean had more or less decided on their next step and Bobby had no better plan formulated yet, he'd go along with it. Holy oil? He would have to look that up; it must be rare. It was a good sign that the boys still had a trick or two up their sleeves. 

After another slug of Scotch, Bobby got and and gathered what he'd need: a few choice herbs from the pantry that he'd dried himself, salt, the bronze summoning bowl. Matches and candles were in the office, along with chalk to draw the sigil. He'd already memorized the incantation. The final ingredient was blood. Really, Sam's would be best but again, the suggestion would bring down Dean's wrath. Bobby wasn't afraid of either of his foster sons, despite how they were both taller and stronger than he was now. The two of them were just as moody and temperamental as their real father, but so far they'd managed to escape the obsessive-compulsive trap. The next few months were going to challenge that. For now, he was eager to find out how and why the entity they were calling caused a man to be impregnated. 

When Bobby returned to the kitchen after gathering supplies, Dean was looking at him with a mixture of eagerness and repulsion on his face. He was clearly as nervous as Bobby himself: summoning Gabriel was a different class than his earlier attempt with Castiel. Bobby had been confident that Castiel would spare him a fate like Pamela's, but Gabriel was not only far more powerful – or so Bobby assumed, what with him being an archangel after all – but he also had his very own agenda and there was no way of knowing what that was. Bobby hoped that Gabriel would find him and the Winchesters amusing enough – or whatever – to keep them alive, only you could never be too sure. Still, he had messed with them before but not killed them, so maybe Bobby's hope to survive this had a foundation somewhere.

He was under no illusion that regardless of the protection, salt, spells, and sigils he'd applied to ward his house, Gabriel could find Sam's whereabouts with the blink of an eye. That he'd left the brothers alone so far suggested that he watched them from a distance. Or maybe he'd had his fun and didn't care any longer. Or, and that was a scary thought, some other being had pretended to be the trickster and Gabriel had nothing to do with the events. Still, summoning him seemed the best course of action for the time being.

"We're not doing this here," Bobby announced. "Your brother has a habit of turning up at the wrong moment and we don't want him around when we do this. Also, this holy oil of yours could easily burn the place down. I have a shed on the other end of the property for such purposes. It's warded, too, but contains no valuables or books, so if we blow it up, the damage will be negligible compared to what's in the house."

* * *

As usual, Bobby was at least three steps ahead of him. Dean considered everything he's said, especially where it came to Sam not being around for the main event. As close as his brother had been to up-chucking before he'd darted upstairs, Dean was fairly certain he'd be out of commission for the time they'd need to at least get a head start. "Yeah, let's go. He'll lie down for a while. Plus we _told_ him to stay in the house. The further away we are, the better." 

The duffel that the guns had been in was empty. First tucking his .45 into the back of his waistband, Dean loaded the old metal bowl into the bag, Bobby's notebook and the flask of holy oil. "You pack the spell ingredients, the herbs and such," he suggested, not wanting to make a mess of them. "What else do we need?" 

It felt unnatural, deliberately going off to summon an angel and who knew what else without Sam. They'd both worked solo before, and with their dad and with Bobby, so it wasn't hunting-related performance anxiety. He and Sam had become so close in the last few weeks that despite the fact that Dean was the farthest thing from touchie-feely and he hated it when couples were joined at the hip, he didn't want to be away from Sam for even a few minutes. "Uh... I think I should tell Sam we're off to experiment with some potentially dangerous spell-work, and that he should stay put. You know... just in case we don't come back."

* * *

"We _are_ going to come back, but I agree that you should tell your brother something," Bobby agreed. "Especially make sure that he is, under no circumstances, to leave the house." He sighed. "I'm tempted to lock him up downstairs, but even I'm not brave enough to attempt that."

He held out his hand to Dean. "Give me the duffel. The less Sam sees that could give him a hint as to what we're about to do the better."

* * *

Dean gestured to the duffel still sitting on the table with one hand and dropped the strap he was clutching with the other. "Alright, get everything in there you need. I'll meet you back down here or outside." His gut tightened, thinking of the spell they were about to attempt. Dying, well, that was negligible. If he did, he knew Sam would do everything in his power to resurrect him again. The process wasn't particularly enjoyable whatever the method. An archangel-smiting would at least be quick, if it happened. So far, Gabriel had been more of a celestial pain in the ass than anything. Getting dicked by angels, so to speak, wasn't on his agenda. 

Now it was time to go convince his always headstrong brother to stay put. Dean spared a sardonic half-smile as he took the stairs two at a time. Stay put, right, but come looking for him if it took too long. Well then, he was going to have to make sure that it didn't take long. At first, looking in with the door barely cracked, Dean thought Sam had drifted off, he was so quiet and still on his bed, the only sound being his breathing and a couple of bird calls from outside. If so, he'd have only have had to scrawl a note and be on his way. But no, Sam's eyes were open, and they focused on Dean as he slowly pushed the door to their room open and walked in. 

"Hey, Sam." He needed a pretext. Nothing in his bag of clothes and the bare travel essentials came to mind as anything he might find some excuse for needing right at this moment. Approaching Sam, Dean sat on the edge of the bed, drawing one knee up and draping his forearm over it. "So, uh, Bobby and I are going to test out a spell... you know, for you. For information, maybe for protection. Out in his old back quonset shed. Need you to stay here." Looking Sam in the eyes, Dean did his best to relay silently how important it was for his brother to stay in the house. "Will you do that?" 

* * *

Every time he began to drift off, something, a thought, a noise, a twinge in his back, brought him back fully awake. Sam sighed and rooted around – again – for a comfortable position he just couldn't find. If this continued at night time, Dean would have kittens: while Sam was a solid sleeper, his brother tended to lie awake during the night. For some reason, Dean couldn't fall asleep, and even if he for once managed to, the slightest disturbance would wake him again. In most cases, the disturbance being Sam, of course, and Dean always made sure to let Sam know how much of a nuisance he was.

Another stab of pain in his sore back made Sam concentrate on his breathing. If he inhaled deeply, maybe the locked up muscles would relax. He wondered briefly if he should ask Dean for help but dismissed the thought immediately: a massage was unmanly. Sam could hardly imagine his brother on the receiving end – unless the massage was delivered by a naked female, of course – but Dean actually giving anyone, even Sam, a back-rub sounded so far out that it was best not to ask.

Just when he was about to get up and call Charlie to find out if painkillers could harm the child, Dean entered the room. When he wouldn't meet Sam's eyes at first but glanced at his bag Sam knew something was up. He listened to what Dean had to say but found himself trying to decipher what it was that Dean wasn't telling him. Testing a spell sounded a little too innocuous, and when Dean asked him to stay in the house without elaborating, Sam's suspicions were confirmed.

"What kind of spell?" he asked. "And why didn't Bobby tell me about it when we discussed protection earlier?"

* * *

"It's something Bobby worked up." Dean felt bad about the half-truth already. "We, uh, need to know exactly what caused this... for sure." They both knew what 'this' he meant. "Before we can do anything else, we need more intel. Since you said trickster, we're going straight to the source. Or, we'll try. Don't worry, I have enough holy oil to trap him." Such a direction as don't worry equaled worry a lot, something Dean was going to redirect or ignore. 

As he expected, Sam shifted as if to protest or stop him, but then winced – hard – and stopped moving. More complications with the pregnancy wasn't exactly unexpected but Dean was unprepared for the panic it provoked. After a moment, he laid a hand on Sam's shoulder and demanded, "What is it, Sam? What's wrong? Are you hurt? Is it... is it the baby?" 

* * *

Sam's eyebrows went up when Dean announced they were going to contact the trickster. In his opinion, summoning an angel – make that an _archangel_ – was more than a simple spell and far more dangerous. Although he was moved – f*cking hormones again! – by Dean's instinct to protect him by keeping him out of this, an instinct Dean would probably rather die than admit to, it was too dangerous. 

He opened his mouth to tell Dean that they should wait with such an attempt before all other options had been considered, which would take a while. Bobby had only researched for a few hours and with Sam and Dean's help, Sam was sure there were other alleys to explore before they decided to go after Gabriel. 

However, when Sam attempted to sit up in order to establish a position that didn't appear quite as submissive as he was when lying on the bed, his back played another trick on him and he fell back on the mattress, hissing loudly with the pain – loudly enough for Dean to drop his mask of being unconcerned and letting his worry show.

"No," Sam ground out through clenched teeth. "It's my back. I dunno what's causing it, but maybe creating space for my... womb..." he winced, "puts pressure on my back and the ride here..." he sighed. "Nothing against, um, Baby, as in your Baby, but she wasn't exactly designed to carry moose..."

The locked up muscles in his back finally relented a little and Sam inhaled deeply. "I can't believe this. I'm not even... showing," he shuddered, "and I'm already whining all the time. How are things going to be when I'm like nine months? Or maybe I shouldn't worry about that," he suggested with a pained laugh, "because you and Bobby are going to gank me long before that for being such a pain in the ass – I'm joking, of course, about the ganking part, but I can't promise that I won't transform into the bitch you're so fond of calling me." He winked.

"Okay," Sam resumed when Dean seemed to relax. "About summoning Gabriel. Is that really the best idea Bobby could come up with?"

* * *

Reacting still to Sam's pain as well as dodging his questions about the imminent spell-work, Dean said, "Oh shit, that sucks... when we get back, I'll run you a hot bath, or shower. Whatever you want." He might sound like a sap, but hadn't there been more than a few times Dean had wished someone would've taken care of his hurts beyond dental floss stitches and makeshift splinting, never mind that after the age of ten or so he'd have probably brushed them off if they'd tried. Considering their profession, Dean had been banged up bad on the average of every few months. While back problems weren't something he had long-term issues with, what with being thrown around by vengeful spirits and various creatures he'd had to deal with the debilitating pain before. It seemed like it was always slow to heal, twinges slowing him to old-man speed and hampering his movements for weeks sometimes. "I hope it's just stress, or, you know, what we did earlier, not another symptom. While we're out, call the Doc and see what you can take for it. Acetaminophen should be alright, at least. Don't they make that for kids?" 

* * *

Again, Sam's eyebrows rose. Had Dean really just offered to run him a hot bath? Sam was pretty sure that he wasn't dreaming. Suddenly, he wondered if there was indeed something scarier than his pregnancy: what if his brother developed nesting instincts similar to those Sam apparently had?

"Stress makes sense," he admitted, "and there's also sitting in a cramped position for too long. At least that should be over for the time being," he added. "Until we get good protection up, I'm marooned in the house. And no, I'm not complaining. Sure, I'd like to go out and all that but first and foremost I want it... us... to be safe."

He looked Dean in the eyes. "Dean. I know that talking to the trickster is the, well, maybe not the most sensible thing to do, but most likely the only source for information we can tap into without alerting any forces that do not yet know about me. Us. Just... Be careful. I need you. More than ever."

Sam groaned. "I can't believe I actually said that."

* * *

"Me, neither, Samantha," Dean replied, but not harshly. He'd started it, and his ears heated, hearing himself voicing his plan to care for his brother's comfort. "Whatever. As long as no one hears us, we can be... however we want for each other, huh?" He'd been about to follow up by slapping Sam on the shoulder, but decided against it and barely tapped his triceps. It would be just his luck if that were proverbial straw. Not that Sam was a camel. Although he was going to have a hump of sorts before too long. And they could always hump each other. Damn, something stirred in Dean's pants thanks to even that mild imagery – OK, not mild at all, thinking of Sam naked with his eyes rolled back and mouth swollen, open, moaning in the throes of frottage heaven as the two of them twisted, entwined, sweaty and... 

Dean had to back away before he started snorting Sam's pheromones and it got really bad, or really hard, as it were. The light touch hadn't seemed to faze Sam; if anything, he seemed surprised. "Um... we'll be as careful as the situation allows. Now I'd better go before Bobby comes looking." It was awkward enough that Bobby knew what they did behind closed doors without him walking in on them. They weren't doing-doing anything right now, but it did feel like a sort of intimate moment. If his younger self could see Dean worrying over his lover, he'd cuss himself out and laugh his head off like the arrogant little prick of only a half-decade ago. "See you soon. Promise." 

* * *

"I'll hold you to that promise," Sam said, his eyes burning into Dean's eyes, then Dean's back as he left the room. He'd always been the needy one, the younger child left behind by their father to be cared for by a brother who was still a child, too. Sometimes, Sam felt guilty that unlike Dean he'd always had someone to turn to with his worries. At the same time he envied Dean for having had a mother and a normal life, if only for a few years – of course, he felt guilty for that thought, too. 

The truth was that he couldn't live without Dean. However rashly his sibling would deny Sam's need for comfort, Sam knew that Dean protected them both with this behavior. Only the situation had changed in a way that nobody could have foreseen. Sam would sit on the bed biting his nails and waiting for the other two hunters to return from their task. If this went the wrong way...

* * *

Once out the door of the bedroom, Dean couldn't be anything than less than fully aware of his surroundings at all times, even going downstairs. Bobby had drawn several devil's traps and other such devices on the ceilings and floors after Sam got possessed a few years ago. They were both warded against possession via their tattoos now... Dean wondered why he'd never seen another hunter with the same design inked on their skin. No matter what area of the country they worked, news of the Winchesters' antics always traveled lightning-fast. True, most people he'd met in the life wore several layers of drab, concealing clothes, himself included, for good reason. 

Looking into the kitchen and then the study, he found no Bobby, so he proceeded outside. The salt line in front of the door would suffer; he'd have to trust the other warding on the house to keep out the baddies while they tried the spell. 

* * *

Dean was surely taking his time briefing Sam. Or maybe Dean was doing more than letting his brother know that they were going to work on something... 

Bobby tore his mind away from the thought whatever else might be going on in his upstairs bedroom. He could understand that the brothers were starved for affection but that was as far as he'd allow his thoughts to go. By no means did he want to consider the details. As for sympathy, one could still find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis. So what if he was helping the boys? It was his job to root out evil, nothing more, and this was just another case, right? At least he could pretend that it was. Nobody would ever find out anyway, so.

When Dean – finally – joined him in the courtyard, Bobby raised an eyebrow in surprise to find him alone. "How on earth did you manage to convince that headstrong brother of yours to not insist on coming with? Did you club him? Tie him to the bedposts?"

* * *

Naturally, Bobby had to comment about the more than ten-second-long goodbye. "Ha ha, that was almost funny," Dean retorted. "Thought you didn't wanna hear about tying up and..." around Sam, Dean had basically no filter, but with Bobby he might be going too far, so Dean ended lamely, "stuff." Yeah, 'stuff', what he and Sam had called their spunk back when his little brother had been first producing it. Rather than have Bobby pester him further about his stupid blushing, Dean took off at a fast clip in the direction of the old shop building. 

After thirty steps or so, Dean slowed his pace, thinking that he would need every precious second to get into the correct headspace. Who- or whatever they managed to summon, he needed to be ready for the worst. Then too, they had a lot of questions for him, her, it or them, and limited time of experience was anything to go by. As he listened to the swishing of long grass against the legs of his jeans and his and Bobby's boot heels on the hard-packed ground of the dirt road, Dean formulated his mental list of queries, starting with the most important. Bobby would have his own set of questions. 

It had been a long time since Dean had been in the building set several hundred yards from the house. He gawked at the walls, the ceiling, and whistled. This was the reason Bobby left the outside in disrepair: the inside – one big room – was was covered in sigils; it reminded him of something out of a horror movie. Though the film versions rarely got to him, the hairs on the back of his neck and his arms rose. At the far end, pulled away from the wall, sat a pair of wooden tables. Looking over at Bobby, Dean inquired, "Another weekend with nothing else to do?" 

* * *

"More like another lifetime," Bobby glared at Dean. "The lifetime I intend to have, that is. Which is why I decided to _decorate_ this little man-cave. What, you don't approve?" He didn't wait for an answer but set his bag on one of the tables and started unpacking them. 

"I was thinking that we might want to consider concentric circles rather than a single one," he changed the topic, annoyed – and worried – by Dean who couldn't tear his eyes away from the sigils. If the boy couldn't focus on what they were about to attempt, they could both lose more than their lives, not even mentioning what could happen to Sam and the... child.

"Mr. Winchester," he finally spat. "Can I draw your attention back to our agenda? Summoning this winged dick, as you like to call these guys, will require all of our concentration. I need your focus on the task, not the protection that's already in place. Would you start pouring the oil, provided that you agree to what I suggested." 

* * *

If stress made Bobby grumpy, it kicked Dean's sarcasm up a notch or two. He shook himself out of the short reverie and into the present. "Fine, fine. Excuse me for admiring your _man-cave_." He'd been about to add the suggestion that Bobby should untwist his knickers while he was at it. Having heard that expression on some PBS series while trapped in a blizzard in a one-motel, one-channel podunk, and it did the job better than its American counterpart, in his opinion. It might be a bit much, especially if he wanted any help, so Dean bit back his rejoinder. Besides, Bobby had a point: they had work to do. 

Concentric circles sounded like a good idea. More protection, if it worked at all. Hopefully there was enough oil in the antique jar. Just to be sure, he started with a smaller inside circle. It would take some concentration to make a circle, not an oval or irregular shape. While Bobby unpacked the makings of the spell and arranged things on one of the tables, Dean drizzled a thin stream of clear liquid on to the surprisingly clean floor. When did Bobby have time for all this upkeep? The only explanation Dean could come up with was that he was an actually an insomniac and the only way for Bobby to fall sleep was to pass out drunk. Having such tendencies himself, Dean shrugged it off as transference and began the outer circle.

Half-way through, the sinking feeling in his stomach deepened. He was more than three-quarters of the way done when the last of the oil dripped from the upturned vase. "Shit... now what?" He could kick himself for not being more attentive, but how was he supposed to know he'd run out? "I don't think it'll have the same effect if I finish with some other kind of oil, like motor or cooking. Huile d'homme?" he snorted. That one, he'd made up himself. And he wasn't acting like much of a man right now. Considering what had happened the last time the trickster had turned up, there was no way he was going to keep his 'oil' anywhere but in his balls. 

The black look Bobby threw him deflated any lingering sense of amusement. "I'll just..." Dean got down on his hands and knees and used his fingers to draw and stretch the fluid into a completed ring. It was a bit thin along the last part of the arc but it would have to do. Wiping his fingers on his flannel shirt, Dean stepped over the circles and found Bobby had almost finished preparing what looked almost like an altar. The Winchesters had all worked with similar set-ups, but that didn't mean he had to like the excessive use of power. Just one more reason they weren't anything approaching normal. Although, with a pregnant brother in his pocket, agonizing over the concept was only a waste of energy. 

"What do you want me to do now?" Dean asked. Before, in the house, he'd skimmed through Bobby's notes, but he could hardly recite anything he'd read in it word for word. One thing he recalled: the spell called for blood. To that end, he fished one of his silver blades from his right-hand jacket pocket and set it in front of him on the table. 

* * *

"Since I suppose this is going to be a once-only gig, let's make sure we're prepared," Bobby said when he watched Dean pour the oil – and spread out the dregs of it in the outer circle. It was by far not as much protection as he'd have liked, but it was all they'd get. Besides, when had a lack of safety measurements ever stopped him? Not that he intended to share the latter with Dean. The boy – boys – had enough of a reckless streak in himself already; there was no need to encourage him to take stupid risks. 

Only, in this case, it may be a stupid risk, but it wasn't an avoidable one. "So," he resumed, "how are we going to do this? I mean interrogation-wise, not spell-wise. If – and that's if with a capital 'I' – we succeed in trapping him, are we going to shoot or ask, as in, have him stop whatever is going on or figure out the how and why? And then, provided he cooperates," Bobby considered it highly unlikely that they'd get this far, but in the unlikely event, he wanted to be prepared, "what would be an acceptable ending?"

* * *

Dean looked up from the spell he was reading. "When we ran into him before, Gabriel was willing to explain the how and why if we played along first, he likes to prove how clever he is or something." 

Just the thought of that double-talking ass-hat made him roll his eyes. "At this point, the 'how', I'll leave to you. My concern is, one, is it even human? I didn't question that at first, but Sam's symptoms are so extreme I have to wonder if it's worse than even for a pregnant man, whatever that means. Two, is there any way to get rid of it without actually, well, getting rid of it. Unless it's a monster." Pursing his lips, Dean shook his head. "You should've seen it. When Jo told Sam to abort it as a solution, I thought he was going to rip her head off. Granted, she wasn't very nice about it, but still..." The thought of Jo, a woman, spun his logic in another direction. "Maybe it's possible... transplant it. To someone who really wants a baby." 

The last question was the hardest to think about. "If it's human and the answer to number three is no, then, what do we need to do so Sam can live through the pregnancy and birth?" Actually, there was one more thing. "If we're going to get answers, we'll probably need to give that dick-weed something in return. The holy oil ring of fire will hold him a while but not forever. Any ideas about what an archangel wants? I sure as hell don't. I'd offer myself but Sam would kill me first. Or, you know. He'd be pissed." Bobby didn't know the whole story, but if anything or anyone else got to the last vestige of Dean's virginity first, he had a feeling he'd never be allowed to touch Sam again. 

* * *

"Oh, maybe it won't be so hard to coerce him into cooperating," Bobby offered. "One question we should not forget is his motivation. So he's the trickster and enjoys taking people far out of their comfort zone and watching them squirm. But as an angel, even if he's a dick, I somehow hope he may not be as shallow to impregnate your brother for no apparent reason at all. I mean, why choose you two and not some hillbilly redneck? I bet seeing one of those guys pregnant would provide more of a show than Sam."

Bobby paused. "What it amounts to is that if there's the slightest hint that he wants the child for a purpose, we need to, a, find out what that is. And then, b, it gives us a means to make him follow our bidding. If he doesn't do what we ask him to, we threaten him with Sam having an abortion."

He received the expected glare from Dean.

"You'd better get that off your face," Bobby continued. "This threat will only work – if it works at all – if we can convince him that we're serious about going through with it. When's the last time you won at poker?"

* * *

"Shit always happens to us, always did and probably always will." Dean had something of a fatalistic attitude about that. He also had to admit they often went looking for the trouble that found them. 

If Bobby was trying to insult him into a poker face, he needn't. That might work for some, but Dean was all about distraction and redirection when it came to his cons. "I can still make a few hundred a night at pool or poker, easy, so don't worry about that. Though your idea of a bluff is... necessary and disturbing, it could work." 

He saw than Bobby had readied all the spell components and set the notebook down. Fishing his silver lighter from his front pocket, Dean lit the candles around the table. His knife held the light in a brief flash as he flicked open the blade, placed the edge to his forearm, and returned to his original spot to hold his hands over the bronze bowl. With a nod to Bobby, he adjusted his stance and waited for the reading of the incantation. The language it was written in sounded old and... dangerous as Dean had struggled to pronounce it inside his head. He wasn't looking forward to this no matter how pressing. 

* * *

Dean got ready to provide the blood required for the spell and Bobby nodded. "Leave the dirty talking to me," he confirmed what he assumed Dean was thinking of. Sam was good with Latin and arcane languages, Dean – not so much. Dean knew his limitations, though, and wouldn't endanger the spell. He'd get his chance at talking when they interrogated the angel later – provided that Bobby didn't fuck up the spell himself.

"Ready?" When Dean gave him a terse nod, Bobby began to read the incantation. He'd have preferred to know exactly what the words meant, but hadn't had the time to finish his research. They could only hope that this wouldn't come back to haunt them later, and he promised himself that he'd set Sam on translating the thing fully once they were done here. Provided that they were still alive, of course...

He stirred the ingredients in the bowl and gritted his teeth when the contents began to glow. "I think this is when the blood should be added," he commented. 

* * *

Before he'd even drawn blood, the bowl below his arm began to glow a lava-like orange. Dean cut a shallow slice on through his skin and the orange changed to brilliant white as the drops of his blood fell into the mixed ingredients below. Bobby finished the ancient words, which Dean took as his cue to light the herbs; he picked up his lighter and flicked it, holding the flickering flame to one side of the pile. Already he had to squint just to make out what he was doing. 

The contents of the brass bowl caught fire, and the double ring of holy oil on the floor did too, the same glowing white, shooting up in a six-foot wavering geyser of thin flames that almost seemed to be chasing themselves around and around. The figure of a man materialized in the middle, which Dean recognized as Gabriel, or the trickster. Any plans he'd made about what to do or say now flew out of his head. Whipping out his .45, Dean pointed it at the smug-as-ever face. "What the hell did you do to my brother?" he yelled. "And why shouldn't I end you for it?" 

"Well, well, well... nice to see you again, too, Dean-o," the archangel replied in a oily tone. "Something wrong with little Sammy? Tummy trouble?" he laughed. Then his expression turned dark. "You can't kill me. Maybe make me stand here for the next century, but you can't get in any more than I can get out." In a universal gesture of boredom, he pantomimed filing his nails. 

"You know damned well what you did to him. He's pregnant," Dean growled. The son of a bitch was probably correct about the barrier of flame around him, but he didn't lower his weapon. 

Again with the annoying, denigrating laughter. Gabriel shifted his feet. "So? You think you can just whore around your entire life and not have any consequences, never plant a bun in the oven? About time your habits bite you in the ass. So to speak." 

The self-righteous rant set Dean's teeth on edge. It reminded him of his father, harping on him for the one aspect of Dean's life he refused to be controlled in. However, Gabriel had insinuated something that made a small measure of Dean's ire abate. "So it's actually mine then? Human, not a monster?" 

But he got no answer, just a stony stare. Dean knew that look. "Look, we have a lot of questions. About Sam. What's your price for answering?" 

"Not into that game anymore. Ask away. Don't count on liking the answers." Up till then, Gabriel had ignored Bobby and not given him a glance. Now he turned to him. "And what's your stake in this, old man? Plans to adopt a stray incest baby?" 

* * *

It was only a matter of time before Dean lost it completely. Bobby watched as the famous Winchester temper flared up right from the beginning. Gabriel reacted to it – if one could call it a reaction – with aloof boredom. Grinding his teeth, Bobby had to actually admire the angel for his calm. However, they were at a stalemate and if Dean lost it any more, he'd probably break the circle and try to strangle Gabriel, and that would be the end of it. Therefore, he was relieved when Gabriel turned his attention away from Dean and to him. Since he wasn't sure how long Dean would keep it together even if he wasn't the focus any longer. Bobby decide to speed up the interrogation.

"Not if everything goes according to plan," he replied amicably. "Unless you give us a very good reason for not proceeding with said plan, Sam's pregnancy will be terminated by the end of the week." He watched the angel closely, but couldn't make out through the flames and fog whether Gabriel flinched.

"You're an intelligent guy, I give you that – much more so than certain others," Bobby made a seemingly random waving gesture toward Dean, hoping Dean wouldn't read it as invitation to kill him. "So I'm sure you wouldn't waste your time with actually going through with this. I mean, having Dean impregnate his brother, fair enough. I hear you that he had it coming. But you don't strike me as the type to sit on your ass for nine months just to see if he or she has Sam's brain or Dean's dick."

Again, he couldn't make out if Gabriel reacted. "Since we're discussing time, you're right that we could have you standing here for a century. You really wanna wait that long? Sam – without child, of course – Dean, and I will be long gone by then and who knows if anyone will ever come to this place and blow out the fire for you. Talk about boredom. So, if you have anything to share, we might be convinced to listen. Otherwise, I'm feeling a bit peckish and I'm sure that Dean could handle a snack, too. If you don't mind, we'd return to our kitchen unless you want to tell us something."

* * *

How he 'had it coming', Dean failed to see. He didn't hurt the people he slept with; if what he'd been told over and over was true, he was damn good in bed. He didn't give false promises. If Bobby meant the fact that Dean and Sam were lovers now, he could keep his judgment to himself. They could talk about that later, though. 

In the past, Dean had seen Gabriel calm and amused, almost flirtatious when he wanted them to play along with his games, and he'd seen him angry, eyes burning almost demon-black with what he supposed the angel considered righteous rage. If he could just get himself out of his ever-present "take care of Sammy" thought process, they might be able to do some good here, but the instinct couldn't be shaken. If it were any other knocked up dude back at the house, Dean would be having a laugh at their expense while secretly calling them deluded. As it was, he feared to speak again lest he erupt in much less manly screaming or simply punctuate whatever he said with shooting the bastard. 

The quick reflection helped Dean steady himself, as did Gabriel tiring of him and instead turning to try his usual BS on Bobby. Bad cop-bad cop, all from the same mouth. While the threat against the child was more effective than anything Dean could have come up with on the fly, and he recognized it as their best – probably only – bargaining chip, it made his blood run cold. He glanced sideways at Bobby and put the .45 away. It wouldn't work on an archangel anyway. Then he once again became the focus of that charged diatribe. 

"Why don't you ask your dear, sainted father?" Gabriel directed at Dean. "Oh wait, you can't, since he's DEAD and all." The being began to pace; three steps each way was all he could manage even on those short legs. "But since he isn't around to tell you, how about I fill in a gap or two? Sam's hardly the first. Happens, oh, every generation or so. It's not exactly a virgin birth this time, but, y'know, close enough," he shrugged. 

"And you," he pointed at Bobby, "won't be doing anything of the sort. Even if you manage to convince Mother Sam, we can just start over. Plenty of raw material to be had." Gabriel turned to leer at Dean, who repressed the urge to cover his balls with his hands. 

At last, Dean simmered down enough to begin to read through some of the finely veiled bullshit. "What do you mean, 'we'? You and the God squad? Aren't you on their most wanted list?" Then he changed his mind on that line of questioning. "Never mind, I don't care. How do we keep Sam alive through all... this?" He waved his hand in front of his stomach. 

"What do you suppose happens to all those other seals, the ones that weren't on Lilith's to-do list?" Gabriel smirked. "Like I said, every generation has its own little crisis with the seals, yada yada. See? You're not as special as you thought. The opposite, since you failed to stop the process." 

Dean was not at all happy to be reminded of that again. They'd been too busy dealing with Sam's condition lately that they hadn't had any time to think about what was in motion in the world. 

"Fine, it's one of the seals, left over from... whenever. Again, I don't care!" Dean growled. "Leave us alone! You and the rest of the heavenly douchebags you call family." 

"Aw, but that's no fun," laughed Gabriel. There was no glint of humor in his eyes, though, and he went on as if he hadn't heard. "Anyway, don't worry, Sam'll live with little to no intervention from you... till the end of it. Yay for modern medicine. If I let him, that is. Or I could just take out that doctor friend of yours and let you two lummoxes fend for yourselves." 

"We have the basics, and Bobby to help," Dean asserted. "So how do we stay off angel radar? You're the expert in that. Done it for thousands of years. There are wards and sigils all over that house but we're not sure it's enough, or the right kind." 

"And why should I help you?" the archangel sneered. "It might be fun to see how long it takes the legendary Dean Winchester to turn sad and limp if every time you pop wood, an angel turns up at your bedside." 

With Bobby huffing in the background, Dean could barely phrase his next insult. "Jealous much? Angels being junk-less and all. But to answer your question..." Dean spoke slowly, "because if you're in on this, you have something to hold over your buddies, and if they can't find us, they have to start over with, as you put it, raw materials." All the other implications in the angel's little digs and pseudo-patient explanations made Dean's head swim, but first things first. 

* * *

Apparently, Gabriel had changed his mind and decided to ignore Bobby as well as what Bobby had had to say. After Gabriel had waved Bobby's threat aside, the older hunter shrugged and sat back to watch what would happen.

* * *

Gabriel seemed to consider it, but Dean suspected it was an act. "Hm, yeah, flipping my brethren the proverbial bird has its appeal. So tell me, Dean... why do you suppose Saint John was always harsher with Sam? More protective, in his own way? And he never put him through the same paces as he did, you, did he? Think!" 

The confusion must have shown on Dean's face. He shrugged noncommittally, like he did anything relating to his parents these days. Since he had learned it was Mary who started the ball rolling with her deal with yellow-eyes, he'd been more disenchanted than ever. "I don't see what that has to do with-" 

"It has everything to do with it," Gabriel interrupted in a hiss. "You're John's son, sure, but Sam's _his_ son." 

Blinking, reeling, Dean struggled to wrap his mind around what he thought he was being told. His mouth opened but he couldn't get any words out. "He... Sa... wha-... no!" He glanced helplessly at Bobby again, silently asking him if he'd known. 

"Just like Sam will now be a father to a son or daughter. And so it's always been, and will be," the angel finished.

* * *

Bobby's eyes narrowed as he listened to the conversation. Whatever Gabriel was talking about didn't make much sense. That in itself wasn't surprising, what with him being an angel and these dicks always had agendas nobody else could understand.

What worried him, though, was that apparently Dean seemed to grasp what Gabriel was going on about. Something that included John Winchester – who'd go postal even in heaven if he knew what was going on with Sam.

He opened his mouth. "What the hell do you mean, Sam will be a father just like John was? There's nothing even remotely similar between Sam and John here. And who the hell is the _he_ in Sam's _his_ son?"

* * *

"Oh for the love of-!" Gabriel rolled his eyes, his whole head really, and threw his hands up like he gave up on the human race having two brain cells to rub together. "Sam is pregnant. Just like your father was, like, 26 or -7 years ago. Runs in the family," he concluded, waiting for the men to catch up.

"How?!" Dean demanded, eyes wide, almost to the point of popping out of their sockets. The world had gone truly sideways on them. More than usual. It was one thing for this to be happening to them, but his parents and... how far back did this go, anyway? For one thing, they'd been – obviously! – hetero couples, so how...? No, ew! He couldn't even go there! 

Apparently Gabriel followed Dean's facial expressions just fine. "Sure you want to know the particulars? No? Didn't think so." 

"OK, so why?" Dean shot back. "The short version for us mere mortals." At least they might get some sort of explanation, after the trouble and worry, not to mention hundreds of miles of puking. 

"Since this whole mess started, every generation Lucifer tries to bring the apocalypse. The end of it all. One of the seals is that a child is born to man. Man – not as the generic 'mankind' but the male of the species. We don't know why but that seal always plays out, whichever others are broken. As it turns out, your bloodline has always been mixed up in it." In a mere second, he went from smirking know-it-all to kindly mentor in demeanor. "Up till now, certain groups, hunters and other organizations have managed to shut it down. About Sam: Suffice it to say, it happened. The point is, you don't know what you want. First you say 'stay away', then you ask for my help. So... which is it?" Looking over at Bobby, he added, "And I doubt that either way, you want holy fire burning in your shed for the next few decades." 

* * *

Bobby watched as Gabriel spun his tale. Could this actually be true? As outrageous as it sounded, he'd seen stranger things. His mind still balked at the thought of John...

So, apparently, did Dean's. The younger hunter looked murderous, clearly not wanting to believe. What with his brother being pregnant, however, there was indeed the possibility that Sam had been born to his father. 

Bobby guessed that it was only a matter of – a very short – time before Dean lost his cool and attempted to kill the angel, holy fire or not. Since Gabriel had addressed him at the end of his little speech, Bobby decided to intervene.

"Well," he began in a slow and bored drawl, "you didn't listen. We asked for your help and you turned us down. Since you won't help, we'll have you stay away. Is it that difficult to comprehend? I thought you heavenly guys knew everything. I must have read the wrong gospel," he sneered.

"Anyways, since you've made it clear that you'll be of no use to us and given your actions so far, I have no issues with having holy fire in my shed for decades. Make that centuries or millennia as far as I'm concerned. Other folks you've messed with won't complain to see you gone, either. And it'll be a personal gratification for me to have the most amusement-seeking being dying from boredom here." He paused.

"Now go ahead and make snide comments. Clap your hands and say Bravo. Whatever. Meanwhile, Dean and I will continue to things that matter, for instance a cold beer to start with. See you in thirty years or so." He turned toward Dean. "You coming?"

* * *

Dean let Bobby finish his studious, bored blow-off of Gabriel's latest highly-imaginative version of how it was possible for Sam to be pregnant, but he was swearing under his breath the whole time. Sure, Bobby was a genius and a good hunter but he wasn't Sam, and Dean felt stupidly off-balance without the brother he'd come to rely on in terms of trading unspoken signals about the words and reactions of their adversaries, which is exactly what he considered the being in the circle spouting so much crap. What pissed him off more than anything was that he'd almost believed it. The colossal gall! As soon as Bobby was done threatening the angel with several decades of confinement, Dean marched up the the line of holy fire on the floor, almost close enough to singe his eyelashes. 

"Look here, asshole," he intoned, low and deadly. "That's a load of bullshit and we all know it. The seals lead up to the apocalypse and that's so last year. If there'd been something funky about how Sam was born," he couldn't help but shudder, "we'd have found out or figured it out. "This is your last chance before we leave you here, because I don't give a rat's ass if you stay here till someone hits the button. Why'd you get Sam... I mean, make Sam... why's he knocked up!?!" Dean found he was yelling and gesticulating, and quickly pulled his limbs back from the fire, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"Because I can... because you two are fun to fuck around with," Gabriel spat. "That's all. Sam's not so special. I could do the same to you. Wanna see?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Sam doesn't want to carry the child..? Well, then..." 

Dean was beginning to feel dizzy, between the flickering light and the way Gabriel was staring up at him like he was the one in a cage. All of a sudden his gorge rose, and he ran for the door before he accidentally extinguished the holy fire by puking up his guts over the ring of it. The heaving – mercifully outside – went on for a while, until Dean had nothing left but thin bile. He leaned against the wall with one hand to brace himself against the old, weathered plank. His belly still felt queasy, but below that, below his naval, he felt... heavy. Kind of like when he'd had a big meal the night before but his body hadn't processed it yet, only... different. The weight was more centralized, more toward his front. And then he realized that whatever-it-was was riding on his bladder and he had to pee like a racehorse. _Now._. Unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping, it all took took too long and by the time he finally relieved himself against the wall he was groaning with need, and then release. What the hell? He hadn't had that kind of near miss since the time Sam was driving and refused to pull over; they'd been teenagers and Dean had been drunk. 

Though rampant denial was thundering in his brain, Dean knew underneath it all what this was. No wonder Sam was so fucked up. And himself, well, he'd better hurry his Ms. Bodily Functions self back to the house before any worse side effects manifested. But first... 

He wobbled back into the shed. "You dick!" Dean hissed at the archangel who stood there all calm and cool with an expectant – _expectant!_ – look on his face. "Get me un-pregnant right the fuck now!" 

But Gabriel just laughed. 


End file.
